


Haywire

by Marasa



Series: The New Trinity [2]
Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Acid, Audrey Hepburn Media, Cuddling, Drug Use, Fluff, Frustrated Mr. World, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, LSD, Multi, Technical Boy's like 21, bad trip, limo, sensitive, soft, technical boy has a rough drug experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marasa/pseuds/Marasa
Summary: This, here in the back of the limo, blown pupils and sweaty palms- this is different. This is actual terror. Something isn't right.





	Haywire

**Author's Note:**

> Simply came about after wanting to write something about synthetic toad skins

They've been sitting in the limo outside of the club for four minutes and eighteen seconds, already much too long for the pair of gods stuck behind the tinted windows.

“Where is he?” Mr. World says, bristly and irritated. He looks out the window and taps his fingers against his thigh. More seconds pass. The door to the club doesn't open.

“You heard him on the phone,” Media says from the seat across from him, looking like Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, dressed up and sparkling like she has somewhere to go tonight. Her look makes the delay they endure even more of a tragedy. “He's on his way.’”

That's a much better way to put it- it's actually coherent. Media had pulled her phone out of her bejeweled handbag after there was no sight of him after five minutes. It had to be her that called him because they both knew the chance of him actually answering was higher if he saw it was Media’s name instead of World’s.

“It’s only because you're always yelling at him,” Media had said as she dialed his number. Mr. World had given a grumble and a roll of his eyes.

A long series of rings resonated in the back of the white limo, the older gods hunched over Media’s smartphone as they waited for their partner to answer. Each ring that passed made Mr. World squeeze his fist in anticipation but it was thankfully released when the rings stopped abruptly on the very last second of the last ring.

A voice, slurred and stuttered, was almost drowned out by the bumping bass and commotion behind it:

“ _‘m on my way, jus wai i-I'm comin, I, wai fer me, I'm comin_.”

The line went dead.

That was four minutes ago. Mr. World looks at his Rolex. Actually, five minutes ago.

The words ‘call him again’ form on Mr. World’s tongue but never get the chance to be spoken as Media looks out the window to her left, Mr. World’s right, and sighs with a shake her head that wobbles the tight bun atop of it.

Mr. World follows her gaze to where Technical Boy stumbles out of the large doors of the club, nearly falling on the pavement as he jogs half-heartedly to the limo, pants lowering down his narrow hips with each step. The previously MIA god throws open the door clumsily and falls inside, slamming the door closed with his heel much too loudly. The limo begins to roll out of the parking lot and Media slides over to make room for him but not without a grimace on her face at the stench of alcohol, smoke and sweat that rises from him.

“What were you doing?!” Mr. World doesn't even give him a moment to breathe before he's tearing into him. Technical Boy jumps and turns his head to him with a stupid look. “What part of ‘meet us at midnight’ do you not understand? Is that too much instruction for you? Am I expecting too much from you?”

Technical Boy hums in confusion, blinking hard. He looks at Media, furrows his brow, looks to Mr. World, at the window, at his shoes, the ceiling- his movements are jerked, a perplexed look on his face, head turning this way and that like he's reminding himself continuously where he is.

“Mm,” Technical Boy smiles absently, suddenly frowns, repeats the action twice and then swallows roughly. “I-I…”

“Speak!” Mr. World shouts.

“‘m sorry, ‘m sorry! I-” Technical Boy runs a hand through his sweaty and unstyled hair, tugging slightly and wincing as he looks far off. “Oh god...”

“Are you deliberately trying to waste our time?” Media says. Mr. World looks to her, thankful for her shared frustration. “You do realize we were unable to meet with one of Wednesday’s men tonight because you decided that you didn't have to be there. It would be wise for you to start making sense.”

But Technical Boy acts like he doesn't hear her. He instead folds in on himself, cowering from an invisible force just to the left of Mr. World, terror and confusion harsh on his face. The young god looks about ready to cry as he lowers himself further in his seat, blinking hard, always blinking hard. He keeps them open long enough for Mr. World to finally see that his pupils are blown.

“He's high.” Mr. World grits his teeth and curls his fingers into a fist. It's taking everything in him to not scream right in the brat’s face. “He's fucking high.”

“So we waited for nothing, then,” Media says, turning to Mr. World. It's true; they won't get much done as long as he's out of his mind. “Fine. We’ll throw him out of the car, next stop.”

“Don't!”

The two older gods snap their eyes to the one who squirms in his seat, dirty blonde hair curling with the nervous perspiration pushing through his pores.

“Don't kick me out. I-I’m not feeling...good. I’m like, t-too fucked up. I just, just,” he gives a tiny shake of his head and whimpers as he tightens his fists in his lap, “j-just need to, uh, um…ride it out.”

He fumbles to grab his vape from his pocket and brings it to his mouth, sucking on the mouthpiece in desperate pulls. Clouds smelling of synthetic toad skins fill the car with every hurried exhale.

“Blow that shit the other way before I snap that thing like a twig,” Media says, hand waving in front of her to clear the smoke.

Technical Boy gives a bratty whine, hands flailing in frustration and head hitting the back of the seat.

Mr. World watches as Technical Boy stares up at the ceiling, reading some sort of actual suffering in his expression. It makes Mr. World furrow his brow and pause in thought as he realizes tonight is very, very different than what is normal for a typical Technical Boy high.

This isn't his usual playful, spacey demeanor when he’s high on marijuana or synthetic toad skins. Technical Boy gets touchy and cuddly when that happens, somehow finding a place for his head in either of their laps, babble-y with a stupid smile on his face that shows off the gap in his teeth. It actually makes Media and Mr. World smile, as much as they try to deny it.

This isn't like the murmuring, relaxed heat of a tab of ecstasy dissolving in his stomach. They find him on the floor of the living room one Friday night, button-down shirt open, face and chest flushed as he struggles to keep his eyes open. He writhes on the fluffy rug, arching his back and nuzzling his cheek against it with a mutter of something about, ‘ _soft, soft, ‘s good, ahh, fuuuck.”_

This isn't the welling of tears in his eyes after ingesting MDMA. That night, Technical Boy clutches his phone in his right hand, his left over his eyes in vague embarrassment as his shoulders heave. Mr. World is confused at first at his movements but then tears are slipping through his slender fingers and falling onto the front of his jeans. What World assumes is a bad reaction is actually the opposite. “ _They love me_ ,” Technical Boy says as he lifts his phone for the other to see, tears falling down his face. “ _They_ _actually_ _love me and I love them, and you two, you both are...actually nice to me and I love you. I love you both, I love you, I love you._ ” They never talk about it again. All that is said about it is Technical Boy swearing that he would never do MDMA again as a mortified blush colors the tops of his ears.

But this, here in the back of the limo, blown pupils and sweaty palms- this is different. This is actual terror. Something isn't right.

“What did you take?” Mr. World says, voice still a little tight with frustration. Technical Boy squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head from the man across from him like he thinks he's successfully hiding from the world.

“Technical Boy,” Media says, soft voice shimmering like the diamond jewelry that adorns her. Mr. World sees the ailing god twitch in her direction, afraid to open his eyes to engage with her. “Look at me.”

There's a brief pause of twitching fingers and quick breathing before Technical Boy finally turns to her, eyes slowly peeking open.

“What did you take?” she repeats the previous question.

“W-Wasn't mine, sh-she gave it to me and, and-”

“What did you take?” Media’s voice strains with the same limited patience Mr. World has, although, she's trying hard to be nice.

“Acid.” Technical Boy cowers in his seat. “LSD.”

“It's really that bad?” Media says.

Technical Boy nods.

“You're not just being dramatic?” Mr. World says.

Technical Boy shakes his head.

Mr. World and Media look at each other, a silent acknowledgment that this is the truth and now they must, as Technical Boy said, ‘ride it out.’

“B-But why would she give me that?” Technical Boy sounds agitated, betrayed. He looks at Mr. World with hurt in his eyes. “She, she gave it to me knowing I was buzzed. W-Why would she do that?”

The god, as still a virgin, pressed up against so many boiling bodies in the dark block that is the club, Mr. World is sure Technical Boy may have persisted on getting more than one of their numbers. He was a good kid, though, Media had said it best- He was just bad with people he didn't know.

Mr. World can imagine it now- _Please, please can I have your number? No? Why not?! Fine! What about you? Whatever; who cares! Ugh! You! You! Yeah, wanna hang out? Please!_

He can practically see the foot stomp that happens when Technical Boy doesn't get his way. He can also see Technical Boy taking a dose of drugs from a stranger’s hand in order to quell his inherent loneliness and weak social skills. Little would he know that it was not a nice gesture, but a deliberately harmful one to come from one of many annoyed clubbers.

The thought makes Mr. World’s fists tighten.

“Fuck humans! Fuckin’ bullshit!” Technical throws his pipe against the car floor. The frog inside the bowl rattles against the glass.

“Hey!” Mr. World snaps. “Enough! Stop this right now!”

Technical Boy stares him down, eyes narrowed and jaw locked. Mr. World doesn't back down, and Technical Boy doesn't look ready to resign from the challenge but then, involuntarily, his eyes falter with a far away look and then he’s whimpering again and scrunching up his face painfully, burying his face in his hands.

“Do you now see the consequences of the idiotic things you do?” Mr. World says sharply. “This is unacceptable, absolutely moronic. This is no way for a _god_ to act.”

Technical Boy stomps his feet on the floor of the limo as a whine breaks in his throat. He squirms in his seat as he pushes his face further into his hands. Mr. World is almost sure that he’ll see tears escape through his fingers once again.

“Enough lecturing,” Media says with a sigh, remaining soft. “He's too far gone to know what you're saying. At least wait till he's coherent.”

She turns to him, hand on his chin and turning his face toward hers. Technical Boy stares back at her, eyes wide and mouth open. He looks terrified.

Media’s hand touches the side of his head. Technical Boy flinches. Media goes a little slower, a little gentler, brushing the nervous sweat from his forehead with her thumb in soothing strokes.

“Close your eyes,” she coos as she tries to guide him to lay back in the white seat of the limo. “Lay back and close your eyes.”

But Technical Boy doesn't close his eyes or lay back. He brushes off her attempted softness and lurches forward, hands on his knees in sudden intense panic.

“Mmm, mmm,” he hums painfully, face wincing, slightly rocking. He reaches out and takes hold of Mr. World’s knee across from him, fingers digging into his knee cap.

Technical Boy slips off his seat and onto his knees, cowering and flinching from things that aren't there.

“What-” Mr. World starts but he's cut off as the other god, with a terrified gasp, scrambles forward onto the seat next to Mr. World, leaning in closer in search of protection.

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” Technical Boy shouts with his eyes squeezed shut and his head pushing against Mr. World’s shoulder, still pushing into him and away from the invisible threat the other two gods have the pleasure of not seeing.

Mr. World thought he knew everything. Technical Boy, however, made it a habit to throw unexpected situations and emotions at the older god that he regretfully didn't have first hand experience in. Technical Boy was actually touchy and surprisingly sensitive and soft at times, and right now, he was rendering Mr. World useless.

The god of globalization, the god that was supposed to know everything about everyone looks up to Media across from him for some kind of guidance.

“Christ,” she says like she’s just as annoyed with him as she is with the one currently tripping, “calm him down.”

Technical Boy’s lips tremble, eyes closed as he leans further into the side of the god beside him in need of comfort and safety. Calm him down. Mr. World is stiff for a moment but slowly brings his arm to lower and curl around Technical Boy. He feels the other god relax into him. He's the leader of their group, a sense of stability that one of them right now desperately needs. Mr. World finds that it's surprisingly easy to fall into the protective, comforting role for the other god.

“You're safe,” Mr. World murmurs soothingly, a hand through Technical Boy’s hair, “now stop this; I have you, you're safe.” He's shocked by his soft words but it feels right, natural in a sense, between them.

Technical Boy looks up at him from his side with deep blue eyes blanketed in fear and confusion. His fist is balled up in Mr. World’s suit as he looks like he's trying so hard to believe that he's actually there to protect him and not just another bad hallucination.

“Breathe,” Mr. World says quietly. His hand rubs up and down Technical Boy’s back in slow, steady strokes that mimic the movement of a deep inhale and exhale. His hand slides up Tech Boy’s back and his fingers press gently at the back of his neck to address the tight muscles there before returning to their assigned path down his spine. “Breathe.”

Technical Boy lays his head on Mr. World's chest in the back of the limo with a trembling exhale. The sliver of skin exposed by his jeans riding low and his shirt riding up is warm against Mr. World’s fingers. Technical Boy hums against him and Mr. World soothes him by making small strokes with the back of his index finger over the smooth skin of his exposed hipbone.

“Wednesday’s man will have left town by now,” Media mentions off-handedly. Mr. World sighs.

“There's nothing else we can do but adapt,” he says.

"We missed our chance."

"Later," Mr. World says without taking his eyes from Technical Boy's face, "we’ll talk about it later.”

Technical Boy, somehow sensing their upset in his deep hallucinatory state, releases an upset exhale against Mr. World’s suit. Media releases a soft ‘shh’ across from them while Mr. World soothes him with a slow caress of his hip.

“I have you,” Mr. World repeats with barely a shift of his lips, arm tightening around him. “I'm right here, you're safe. I have you.”

Technical Boy calms hesitantly, sinking into the presence of the other man as he rides out his hellish trip. The soft caress of his warm skin, the protective grip around him, the soft murmuring of ' _you'll be okay, I have you_ '- Mr. World learns and adapts. That's all there's left to do now; they don't have another choice- they must adapt.

Together, they can adapt.


End file.
